


Dust

by Elivra



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 21:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6676618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elivra/pseuds/Elivra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the Doctor and Danny Pink gone out of her life for good, Clara struggles to deal with her grief and contemplates on dust. (Rated for one swearword)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust

Her eyes filled up again when she whipped open the curtains in her room at her Gran’s. She kept telling herself it was the sunlight, but she knew better.  
No, she had to be strong. Chin up, Clara Oswald. Look alive.

 _Alive._  


When she thought it was over, that it was finally done, she slept. And slept. And slept some more. Langorous and zombie-like, she haunted her apartment for two weeks. And then, the night before she was due to return to school, the blow struck again. He opened the portal, and she heard his calm, apologetic voice one last time… And then it was truly over.  


She still didn’t know how she managed to keep her wits about her and find Rashid a home. His entire family was dead –by all rights, he should have been too –but no. (She would not go there, she would not be bitter about this boy surviving. She. Would. Not.) Eventually, she had to call in UNIT to help rehabilitate him. Kate Stewart personally saw to the proceedings and so everything went without a single red-taped hitch. They had asked if he could stay with her until his place in the living world could be decided, and she had to force herself to nod. Luckily, Rashid himself preferred living with someone who spoke his language, and so, outwardly unwilling and inwardly cheering, Clara let him go.  


It was wrong of her, so wrong of her, to not want him around. He was Danny Pink’s legacy, surely she saw that.  


A single tear pricked down her dry cheeks. She did. Of course she did. But she didn’t want any fucking legacy. She wanted Danny Pink.  


“Everything alright, my dear?”  


She sniffed and rubbed away the lone tear. “Yeah, Gran.”  


Her Grandmother came to stand next to her at the window and put her arm around her shoulders. “Such a lovely day, you wouldn’t believe it’s December.”  


“Yeah. They’re saying this winter’s the mildest yet.”  


“Well. That’s good I suppose. All the same, a little snow would be nice.”  


“We’ll probably have some in a week or two. It’s early days yet.”  


“Yes, indeed.” Her Grandmother looked at her, and she returned the look. “I’m glad you’re here my darling. Anything you need, you tell me. Your Gran’s got it covered.” She tapped her nose knowingly.  


Smiling a smile she didn’t really feel, Clara hugged her.  


When her grandmother left the room and she turned back to the window, the sun had come out –it was surprisingly bright and warm, almost as if it had forgotten to be elusive and dim.  


She was stunned speechless.  


Golden motes filtered through the translucent curtains, the sunlight rendering them a-shimmer. In the midst of her grief she found herself suddenly transported into a magical land of glowing, sparkling particles. No, not particles. Dust.  


...to dust.  


Ashes to ashes.  


She looked up at the abnormally cloudless sky, where they had once burned, all those weeks ago. Were they still burning? Were they all dust now, all a part of the air the ungrateful world breathed, all a-shimmer in the rays of the sun? Was she _breathing_ him in now?  


At that thought, she couldn’t help it; she had to rush to the loo and throw up. She cried then too, but she told herself again it was her usual puke-cry session.  


_Look alive, Clara._  


She went back to stand by the window, shaking and empty, her eyes burning, her cheeks dry. Say what one would, it was beautiful. With the foliage outside in full winter mode, it was all dead and glowing. Gold and cold. Dust and gold.  


She brought up her hand into the light, and instantly, her hand was aglow –all pulsating red and shimmery gold. Perhaps they were still burning up there in the sky. Burning her hand now. Burning her heart.  


She wondered how much worse it would’ve been if she had had two hearts. How much more she’d be burning inside.  


Sometimes, if she concentrated hard (usually after she’d eaten), she could remember fragments of her sojourn in _his_ timestream. They were tiny, often really inconsequential bits. But she made sure to remember certain things ~~(and more importantly, forget some)~~. She made sure to remember all his faces, for one thing. And for another –she made sure she remembered his home.  


It was just a fleeting glimpse from a separated lifestream, but it was there –all red and orange, glass and spires, also a-shimmer. And now she could see him there too, finally back to where it all began, back home. And yes, he was glowing –not the air around him, _he_ was glowing.  


She focused her gaze back on her illuminated hand. It was as if some of that heady, dusty, grassy breeze had now floated over to her mundane corner of the universe and sparked the dust and her hand.  


She took a deep breath and swallowed a sob. It was a good thing, she told herself. Danny Pink and the Doctor, both burning in the stars in their own distinct, special way, setting her heart and hand afire.  


“It’s all good.”  


Chin up, Clara Oswald.


End file.
